


Cheers!

by scionXtales



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Corruption, Discrimination, Felix is a tool- what else is new?, Manipulation, Slow Build, Tragedy, Violence, Wash is...Wash, but also good times, did I mention bad language? because it's in there lol, if you squint there's fluff I promise, this is kind of tragic like seriously, tragic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-09
Updated: 2016-06-10
Packaged: 2018-07-13 21:21:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7137698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scionXtales/pseuds/scionXtales
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maintain order. Abide by the rules. Stop making kids cry.  </p>
<p>Wash's purpose is clear cut, like black and white. The city must be protected against magic-wielding abominations, for the sake of peace, you understand. No exceptions. Of course... there's always an exception, isn't there?</p>
<p>A.K.A the story where Wash chooses the wrong rooftop to brood on and Tucker has terrible aim.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Your Worth is Zero

_Rule number 1: You mustn't cry._

_Rule number 2: Mask at all times._

_Rule number 3: Forget yourself._

 

His mother counted the bills like a scavenger on its last legs. Shoulders hunched, eyes thirsty, her bony fingers sifted through the thin, stamped paper as she made sure every last cent was there. They were rectangular things, a pastel red, with the face of The Director impressed upon their center. A severe man with a sharp jaw and square glasses, and Wash didn't want to see him; didn't want to go.

But he didn't have a choice.

The Collectors were already waiting by the door. There were two of them, a man and a woman, donned in white and decorated in an assortment of utterly useless belts and buckles. Their hair was well-groomed, their faces like stone, but nothing as unnerving as their empty eyes that judged without judging.

Wash watched them from where he sat on their lumpy, burlap couch, fingers fisted in the front of his shorts. Why was this happening? He was- he was _good_ enough.

_But not good enough for them_ , a voice whispered from the dark recesses of his mind.

Wash leaned forward and clenched his lips tight, willing his eyes to stop burning at the thought.

It was cold in their small living room. Cold and dark. Outside was winter and its frigid chill had long since seeped into every crack and creaking floorboard of the house. A murky green glow slipped through their broken, tilted blinds from the streetlamps below, casting the room in crooked, unnatural shadows.

This house wasn't a home Wash liked to be in very much. But it was the only home he knew of and had to call his own. He didn't want to  _leave_.

"It's enough," his mother said after a short while. The money was enough, but _he_ wasn't.

Wash gnawed furiously on his lips, clenching and unclenching his fists on the verge of tears. How could he prove he was worth more than _50_ rems?

He couldn't. He couldn't do anything. 

Wash glanced over, watching as his mother stuck the wad of crisp, red bills into the front of her billowy blouse. It hung off her narrow body like an over-sized sheet. With the newly gained money she could buy a new one, much nicer, and much more clean. They could pay for heat and maybe enough food to last the early months of the bitter, cold season.

"You can have him." His mother jerked her head in Wash's direction, not bothering to look. Something hot and angry stirred in his chest, but the emotions were swallowed by the larger waves of fear and desperation that followed as the Collectors turned his way.

"Project: Creation will have you now," said the man.    

Wash tore his gaze away. His father. Surely his father would-

The man sat motionless before the TV, gaunt and pale, brightened only by the flashes of chaos playing on the bulky screen. He was a corpse. Just a corpse. And as Wash looked on in that stagnant piece of time, he wondered just how long his father had been dead.

Wash must've been staring longer than he thought, because the Collectors actually seemed to have grown impatient. The man stepped his way, a hand reached out, as if to grab him. Wash looked between the Collector's face and his reaching hand. And something...just...snapped.

He leaped off the couch and ran.

Limber and quick, he slipped from the Collector's grasp with ease. His mother gasped, shrill and sharp. See? He was good enough. He was _good enough_.

Wash ducked under the snatching arms of the Collector standing by the door. She muttered something, terse, but Wash didn't hear, out the door and into the frosty, night air. His footsteps crunched loudly as he flew down the street, stumbling and slipping on slick patches of ice. There were few people out, bundled heavily in thick coats and scarves. They ignored him because he didn't matter. Not to them or anyone in the city; not to anyone else in the world.

Above Wash the stars twinkled bright, vibrant specks in a dark ocean of deep blues and black. And his lungs were tightening, burning hot; hot as the tears swelling fast in his eyes, because it was getting hard to breathe and even harder to see. He stumbled once, stumbled again, wheezing out short gasps with his cheeks stained red. His miserable heart knew. 

There was no running. Not from this. 

An arm swung into his stomach as he was seized from behind, nearly sweeping him off the ground.

Water spilled from his eyes, and he couldn't stop, because soon there would be no more tears allowed. No laughter, no happiness. Nothing; not even dreams. He would become like a wall, unfeeling and cold, like the Collectors, like The Director, and- 

He didn't _want_ this.  

Wash screamed through his sobs as he was hauled in the air, twisting and struggling madly to break free. _Why was this happening?_

Young, and only seven, but worth nothing more than 50 rems.

Not good enough.

Not good enough for anyone.

Above Wash the stars twinkled bright, bleeding specks in a blurry ocean of watery blues and black.

 

_Rule number 1: You mustn't cry._

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, I'm super excited for this! I promise it's not half as depressing as it sounds. (Except maybe it is)


	2. M.O.I

A slaughterhouse: and he was the cow being led through its halls.

Three Collectors flanked him from both sides and behind. None of them were the same as the ones who had come to his house, but they pressed in close all the same as if he would try and escape again.

Wash was semi-aware when the exchange happened, though the entire journey through the Upper District had been something of a blur.

After a second, failed attempt to run away, he'd been struck across the head. His consciousness had wavered, teetering on the edge of precarious beam, and that's where he stayed for the duration of the trip, even after he'd been tossed over a shoulder and brought to a square, bulky van; all black leather and tinted windows and filled with an oddly sterile smell.

Outside the window Wash could barely make sense of all the bright neon lights, passing cars, and towering grey buildings. There was a lot of steel and a lot of glass, that much he could tell. It was nothing like the slummy backstreets he grew up in, where only lopsided streets and shack-like houses squatted close to the ground.

Wash's head lolled onto his chest, dizzy and overwhelmed. He didn't feel very good. Nausea swelled in his stomach, spreading hastily through his chest and into his throat. One of the Collectors was driving, the woman who had hit him. But the other one, the man, was sitting in the wide seat across from him, staring.

Wash opened his mouth. His stomach lurched.

And the van received a new decoration.

He must've fainted afterwards, because the next time he opened his eyes he was being dragged from the van by the new set of Collectors, all business and male.

Someone dragged a wet cloth roughly across his face and clothes, but Wash's groggy attention wasn't on the hands wiping him down, but on the massive facility seated at the top of twenty flights of thick, stone stairs. It was an angular pointed building constructed almost entirely of metal and stone, with no windows- at least none Wash could see- and shaped like a three-pronged star. Made of twisting steel and copper were the letters M.O.I, displayed large and proudly across the top of the structure. 

He wondered what it meant.

A hand grasped his shoulder firmly. Wash's gaze blearily shifted to the Collector standing at his side. There were no words, no gestures. They were walking up the many stairs before Wash could even think to speak.

His knees felt numb from the bitter cold, the skin on his face cracking as the residue water left on his cheeks from the wet rag turned to ice. Still, he climbed. His legs grew tired not even halfway up, but they kept going and didn't stop, and by the time they'd reached the top Wash was red in the face, freezing cold, and teetering again on the edge of that beam.

He zoned out entirely as the massive entrance doors rumbled open; as they passed through a square lobby, silent and empty; as they began a long descent down a series of halls leading further and further beneath the ground. He didn't feel any warmer. Everything was grey. Everything was metal. The floors were laid in titanium.

Eventually they stopped in front a wide, arched door, engraved in ornate designs Wash didn't care to try and decipher. It opened and he was led inside and- 

_Warmth._

Wash almost stopped at the revelation. It was warm inside this room, as if the very floors were heated by a cozy, night fire.

The room was large for how little was inside. A large monitor against one wall, three tall and narrow shelves filled with books against another. Two more Collectors stood rigidly in the either corner of the room, not bothering to give Wash- or those guiding him- a second look. Straight ahead was a three-part desk, stacks of papers, diagrams, and files neatly organized on top. A single chair was placed in front the desk, rigid and square.

But Wash's eyes weren't on any of this. He was looking at the back of a man reading encrypted data on a huge, holographic screen above his head. The man read for a moment longer, as if unaware they had come in, then he reached and touched a symbol on the lower left of the screen. Wash watched, amazed, as it vanished with a _szzwhoop!_

"Counselor," one of the Collector's finally said.

"Yes, I'm aware you're here," the man replied, turning around. He had dark skin and finely buzzed hair, eyes intelligent but cold, and an odd smile on his lips. He wore a monochrome jumpsuit with several belts and prim cuffs, a symbol similar to the shape of the building stitched in white on the left side of his upper chest.

"You may leave now," the man said to the Collectors surrounding Wash. They did so without another word. The door slid shut behind them with an echoing boom. Then it was Wash and the man and an unsettling, loud quiet.

The man studied Wash in silence for some time before beckoning him towards the chair.

"Please, have a seat. You must be exhausted from your long trip. I trust it wasn't too unpleasant?" he questioned, in a manner that suggested he wasn't really looking for an answer.

Wash stood for a long time, staring at the chair. There was nothing else he could do. He walked towards the chair on shaking legs and sat. The man remained behind the desk, that unnerving smile still twisting his lips.

"I'm told you gave the Collectors quite some trouble. A hassle for them, but curious for me. You have potential, Washington. Potential I think could be used."

Wash's hands were fists on his lap. He stared at the floor. How did this man know his name?

"Your records were filed into our database once we received the call," the man said, as if reading his mind. "It was your mother who divulged to us this information before we sent our Collectors out to finalize the payment."

Something heavy and painful struck at Wash's chest. How long had his mother had already been planning on getting rid of him?

The man walked around the desk to stand in front of Wash. "My name is Aiden Price. But you will refer to me as The Counselor, as it is my title; my duty. In time you will find yourself thinking the same, as you transform from the child you are now, to a fully-fledged member of our elite forces. Or soon to be elite. Project: Creation is in its...early stages. We are grateful for your volunteered service. Over time, as you settle in, our purpose will be better explained. For now, just know you are contributing to a great cause."

 _Volunteer?_ The word echoed hollowly inside Wash's head. He didn't volunteer. Not for this. What was this guy saying?

"I will play a very pivotal role in your life from this point forward," The Counselor went on to say. "I am The Counselor of all those inside this establishment, and from this moment on, that includes you. This facility- the Mother of Invention- will be your home now, and I want you to feel as comfortable as if it were your own. But like any home, we like to establish a sense of order, of control. You see there are rules you must follow; rules we value over all else. But those can be learned in the coming months. Do not trouble yourself with thoughts of them now."

The Counselor nodded at one of the Collectors standing guard near the window. She nodded back and walked somewhere out of Wash's line of sight.

He wanted to turn and see, scared of what could be happening next, but The Counselor was looking at him, lips pressed in the barest hint of a smile, with cold eyes that dared his attention to wander.

A moment later the Collector returned, arms full. She handed it to The Counselor who inclined his head in thanks. The next thing Wash knew, the bundle was being given to him. 

"These are your effects, so to speak," The Counselor explained. "Every trainee under us wears this standard attire. Shoes will be delivered at your bedside by the morning. I would further explain to you the purpose of the mask, but that requires more time to get into. I can see you're exhausted. You should rest now. More can be discussed tomorrow."

Wash barely heard the words. He stared down at the neatly folded clothes he was given; stared at the white mask laid on top, painted with the face of a smiling jester. A thick, vibrant line streaked horizontally across either cheek; one red, one purple.

Wash ran his thumbs over the mask, lingering on the single printed tear caught on the side of one of the crested eyes.

Was...this who he was now? What he was supposed to become?

A knock at the door broke his spiraling thoughts. Wash looked up as The Counselor made a noise of approval. 

"Excellent timing."

Wash turned his head to look.

 A tall, unsmiling, broad-shouldered boy was led into the room by a single Collector, dressed in the same monochrome clothes Wash had been given- a grey shirt and black pants. He had dark, cropped hair and amber eyes, and long, pale scar running from his temple to chin. If The Counselor noticed how Wash recoiled in his chair, he said nothing, gesturing instead towards the other boy. 

"This is Maine. He will be your bunk mate for the time being, as well as help you grow acquainted with the Project."

Wash clutched the clothes in his lap a little bit tighter.

 

They were taken down a series of long halls that eventually led back upstairs. It was incredibly quiet the entire trek through the facility and Wash really wanted nothing more than to leave. Some time later, the two Collectors who had accompanied Maine and Wash for the trip, left them standing in front a series of rooms along the wall.

Maine headed for one on the far right, with a strange symbol carved into the door. Wash stayed rooted to the ground, watching as the older boy opened the door and disappeared inside. He was...he was just supposed to accept this? The whole situation? The complete 180 his life had spun in? _How?_

Maine reappeared a moment later, standing in the doorway and staring at Wash.

Oh. _Oh_.

Wash jerkily walked over once he realized Maine was waiting for _him_.

And like that he found himself in his new room. It was barren save for a desk and a metal bunk bed, fitted with crisp white sheets and a pillow that looked hard as rock. He glanced over to his left side, finding another door open and leading into a small bathroom.

"Change your clothes."

Wash jumped high enough to give himself a heart attack. He tore his gaze from the bathroom to see Maine halfway up the bunk, looking at him with dead serious eyes.

It took Wash less than two minutes to throw off his old clothes and yank on the new ones. His dirty clothes laid in a crumpled heap by his feet. Maine told him to leave it, lying flat on his back and staring at the ceiling.

Wash looked at the older boy for a moment, feeling very stupid standing by the door with only a weird clown mask in his hands. But Maine wasn't saying anything else nor did it look like he was about to. So Wash turned and shut the door, as he'd always been told to do back home when he was about to go to sleep, and went to the bottom bunk he presumed was his own.

Wash set the mask beside his pillow, not really wanting to look at it, but not knowing where else to put it. There was always the desk, but Wash didn't know if it was solely Maine's. And he wasn't going to test if it was.

Five minutes passed in absolute silence. During that time Wash used the bathroom, came out, and crawled back into the bunk. Then he proceeded to lie very still in his newfound bed.

The quiet was unnerving. Was the other boy even there? He thought about the boy, how scary he was; he thought about The Counselor, how scary _he_ was. Then he thought about the mask he'd been given, and decided that was the scariest thing of all. Would other people see that painted face and be scared like him?

He didn't know. He didn't want to think about it anymore.

Wash kept his eyes open for the remainder of the night, terrified his dreams would be nightmares.

 

Morning arrived and Wash hadn't even known.

In their windowless room brightened only by artificial light and absent of clocks, it was impossible to keep track of the time. The lights never went out the entire time Wash laid there in bed. Was this seriously how they were going to sleep in this place? How did anyone know what day it was? His thoughts were interrupted as a figure moved into his line of sight.

Maine.

"We're getting breakfast," he stoically said.

Wash slipped slowly out of bed. There were boots at his bedside that hadn't been there before. He stuffed his feet into the rigid, grey things- and immediately winced. They were too small, squishing his toes and cutting the circulation off around his ankles as he tied the winding straps around his pant legs. He was surprised to see Maine by the door, waiting. But The Counselor's words from the previous night were slowly coming back to him. Right. Maine was here to help him settle in.

Wash all but limped over to the older boy.

Maine stared at him.

Wash, looked away, forcing himself to put an end to the odd gait in his step. Once they stepped out the room, Wash noticed an obvious change in the air. The halls were as long and dull as they were before, but it didn't feel as dismal the third time walking through. And there were _others_ \- other kids like him, dressed the same, maybe a bit older, maybe some of them as old as Maine. There weren't many, but at least they _existed_.

Wash didn't know why he thought it would only be him, Maine, The Counselor, and a bunch of creepy Collectors milling about the place. 

The kids didn't give Maine or Wash much attention, all headed in the same direction as them. Right. Breakfast, Wash remembered.

Eventually they came to a mess hall lined with rectangular tables and round seats. There were Collectors posted around the hall keeping watch, and a handful clustered at one of the tables, robotically eating some sort of porridge from white bowls. They were uncomfortable to look at.

So unnatural, void of feeling, and alien from what Wash thought most people were like. 

He stepped a little closer to Maine as the older boy fell into line with the other kids to get a food bowl of their own. Maine took his food and left. Wash also took a bowl but stepped off to the side, looking around the largely empty room. Everyone was minding their own business. Did people come in this often that new faces didn't matter?

Honestly he was caught off guard. He knew the stories of The Director; knew the stories of the Collectors. But this was...this wasn't like what he'd heard. The Collectors were emotionless, yes. But the other kids were just like...kids. They talked and some were even laughing.

Was everything he heard a lie?

It was then Wash noticed Maine heading for a table where several boys and girls his age sat. He took a seat with them, doing little more than grunting as they offered up greetings. Ah. He...didn't invite Wash. Well he...didn't really know the older boy or...anyone so... right. Right.

Wash ducked his head and sat at an empty table nearest to the food line. He stared into his bowl of creamy porridge, not very hungry.

He wasn't aware how long he'd been sitting there, looking at his food, until he heard the sound of clattering dishes and chatter. He lifted his head in confusion. Everyone was leaving- except for the Collectors. Wash sat, utterly confused as the other kids left the mess hall, even Maine.

"Washington."

Wash whipped his head around. A Collector gazed at him expectantly.

"You're wanted in Sector 3C."

Wash blinked. Was he supposed to know where that was or even what that _was?_

He looked at the Collector for an unnecessarily long time. The Collector matched his stare with one of her own.

No other explanation was offered.

 

He was really getting tired of all these journeys through identical hallways. It turned out Sector 3C was the room he had first been brought to last night, where he met The Counselor and had been given his "effects". Something told him he should remember this for future reference.

The door slid open and Wash was once again left standing inside. But  _this_ time the man waiting wasn't The Counselor.

Everything in Wash's brain shut down.

He would recognize the face of The Director anywhere.

His gaze was sharp as he watched Wash walk in, green eyes glinting beneath his square glasses. He was dressed in a jumpsuit similar to The Counselor's, with slightly more embellishment. 

Wash took note of the chair seated in front the desk. He walked over stiffly and sat in it without question, not entirely sure what had driven him to do so.

The Director hummed approvingly. "I see," he drawled in a richly thick accent Wash couldn't place. "So you're Washington. The Counselor informed me of your arrival late last night. I'm told it was something of an affair."

Wash swallowed hard, vaguely thinking how similar The Director's words were to The Counselor's.

"Washington," The Director suddenly said, loud and curt. "When I speak, you _answer_. I hope that's clear."

"Y-Yes," Wash hoarsely replied. The Director started to glare. Wash racked his mind for all the manners he'd been taught. "Sir," he fumbled out a second later. "Yes, sir."

"I trust Aiden briefed you on your purpose," The Director said, his glare all but gone.

 _Who?_ Wash wondered. It came to him a second later. The Counselor. Aiden was The Counselor. "Yes, sir," he hastily replied.

"I believe you have potential, Washington. You're young. You haven't been tainted by the cruelty of the world. At least, not the same cruelty as I. I brought you here for one purpose today, and that is to determine the extent of your worth to me. You were sold to us for 50 rems. I'd like to believe you're worth more than that meager amount."

Meager? 50 rems was a lot! It was much more than Wash could even imagine having for himself. It _was_ a lot. It had to be a lot. His mother sold him because she believed it was a lot.

The Director, ignorant of the struggle waging war inside Wash's head, picked up a device from the desk; a foreign hunk of metal that looked vaguely like a weapon. "We're going to test your aptitude. Let us evaluate your worth," he said, approaching Wash. "Kindly don't move."

Wash sat frozen in the chair as The Director drew near. What was that? Something to torture him with? Break his spirit? The stories he began to doubt that morning came flooding back into his head in a wave of fear and anxiety.

The Director placed the barrel of the strange tool in the middle of his forehead, then cocked back a trigger- and pulled.

Nothing. 

Wash opened his eyes, trapped in a half wince, not knowing when he closed them. For a second he thought- he thought was going to die. The Director seemed equally surprised, glancing between Wash and the metal tool as if something marvelous had just occurred.

"No reaction whatsoever," The Director mused aloud. "Interesting."

 _Reaction to what?_ Wash wondered with a frown. Did something get injected into his head. His skin crawled at the thought. He had the sudden urge to itch at his forehead where the barrel had touched.

The Director turned back towards the desk, once again oblivious to Wash's new dilemma.

" _Very_ interesting... You  _are_ worth something..." 

He set the device down, and the next time he faced Wash there was something of a smile on his face. Wash tried not to look as uncomfortable as he felt. 

"Let's get you to your first class then, shall we, Washington?"

 

Wash thought he'd reached his limit of how uncomfortable he could made to feel in this "Mother of Invention" place. But walking alongside The Director in near _crushing_ silence easily proved him wrong. Maine was a cheerful daisy compared to the older man.

After turning down what had to the the hundredth unfamiliar hallway, The Director stopped in front of a single door Wash hadn't even noticed existed, opening it without bothering to knock.

Wash took a glance inside and almost reeled back. A classroom full of long, curved desks, tall chairs, and multiple levels- not to mention _full_ of the kids Wash had seen earlier in the mess hall. And they were _staring_.

The Counselor was at a tall desk at the front of the room, standing before a large monitor similar to one he'd been reading off of when Wash had been brought in last night. This time, though, there was an image on screen. He couldn't see it clearly from the door but it looked like a large storm cloud.  

They seemed to have come in mid-lesson, but it didn't look as though The Counselor particularly minded. He greeted The Director as the other man steered Wash inside.

"Perfect. We were just going over the purpose of Project: Creation."

The Director nodded. "Washington is ready to join studies with the rest. File him into the Class-A training roster by tonight."

Apparently that meant something, because suddenly all the kids inside were looking at Wash with suspicious and searching eyes. Even The Counselor was smiling, and not in the usual creepy way he did. This one was menacing, like the one a predator gave to prey it knew it had trapped.

Wash really, _really_ , just wanted to sit in a corner, away from all the staring; away from all of  _this_.

"Of course," The Counselor replied after a moment. "It'll be done."

"Then I'll leave you to your lecture," The Director said. He dropped his hand from Wash's shoulder, looking briefly at a redheaded girl seated in the front row before he left. The girl glared until he disappeared, then turned her glare full blast onto Wash standing awkwardly in the middle of the room.

"Well, this is exciting," The Counselor said.

 _For who?_ Wash flatly wondered.

"Now then, why don't you have a seat between York and North and we'll continue with our lesson." Two boys in the back semi-raised their hands, looking at Wash with the same curiosity as everyone else. Wash couldn't have walked up the steps leading to where they were seated faster. He sank in the seat between them, staring at the long desk they all shared.

"How old are you?" the boy to his left asked. He had blond hair and a long nose and grey eyes.

"Seven," Wash mumbled, wanting to be left alone.

The boy to his right, however, nearly had a conniption. " _Seven?_ " he echoed, loud enough for all of the class to hear. "All of us are like, thirteen or twelve. How'd you end up in _here?"_

"York," The Counselor firmly said. He fixed the brown-haired boy with a stern gaze. "Matter like that are none of your concern."

The boy slouched and muttered out an apology.

"Now then, let us continue," The Counselor said, directing the class's attention back to the monitor that had been on display when Wash walked in.

Now that he was sitting, he could clearly see what it was. A large, hideous, black blob encompassed most of the slide, radiating poisonous looking fumes. It was a monstrous beast with a multitude of eyes, some crimson, some violet.

Wash was reminded of the colors streaked across their masks.

"This, as most of you are aware, is a Krawll. Though their exact origins are unknown, they _are_ known to gather and appear in locations where magical activity is present. More often than not a mage will be nearby, no doubt watching the havoc they've caused. They are deadly to any human,and spare no one. They will relentless hunt for flesh until they are destroyed, and few things can kill them."

The Counselor moved onto a different slide. This one showed a metal contraption, full of gears and switches. Wash recognized it as the same thing The Director used on him.

"Shooters are our recently developed tool capable of apprehending those with magic. They release electrical charges meant to disrupt a mage's flow of magic. However, recent tests have shown that these weapons are useless against Krawlls. We are currently working on technology capable of defeating them. Until then, recognize the danger you are in, should you encounter one." 

The slide changed again. This one showed a series of pictures of average people. Wash wondered what they had to do with anything. The Counselor smirked as if reading his thoughts.

"They looked like you and I, no? That is your first mistake, assuming they can be considered people. The point of this is for you to note that there is nothing bizarre-looking about those who have magic. They appear as we are- relatively normal. But you would be wrong. Those with magic are an abomination," The Counselor explained. "They are less than human, menaces to society, and must be apprehended at all costs.

"They are devious and their abilities unpredictable. Some are even known to channel their powers through their eyes. We developed masks to protect your faces. You'll be able to see out of them, but no one can see in. And so long as your eyes are protected, so is your mind from their manipulation. That has been tested in the field and confirmed."

"Tested by who?" the boy, North, muttered to himself. Wash glanced at him. The Counselor spoke on.

"Your masks are indicative of who you will become. Jesters. It may not be the most flattering of titles, but it is better than being known as clowns."

"Still creepy as hell," the boy to Wash's right scoffed. York, right?

"Mages are the reason this city suffers. They unleash monstrous creatures like the Krall on the city, commit crime, and endanger the lives of those trying to live in peace." The Counselor paused, taking a moment to gaze around the room. "You all understand then, why they must be dealt with?"

Someone up front offered an extremely exuberant, "Absolutely, sir!"

Wash wanted to agree. Except he had never seen anyone with magic before. His eyebrows furrowed. Were they really as bad as The Counselor made them out to be? In the neighborhood Wash grew up in, those who committed crimes were the neighbors next door. He frowned, tuning back into The Counselor's lecture.

"Project: Creation was founded for this sole purpose. The government has kindly invested in this leading program...but to them we are a mere faction meant to "clean the streets" so to speak. The Director and I, however, have a much grander vision." The Counselor's eyes brightened. "We are Project: Creation, meant to carve a new way into society's affairs. And we will lead this city to greatness. A greatness achieved only when every last Krawll and abomination are eliminated. 

"So yes, while your duties are to monitor the streets and keep them safe, that is only in regards to situations concerning magic. Do not do more than what is asked of you. We are not the local police, but a special force separate from their own. Your orders will come from us and those orders are the only words you should act on." The Counselor turned away from the monitor, sweeping his eyes across the room with a small smile. "I do not need to warn you of the consequences should any of our...volunteers step out of line."

Wash shuddered at the threat, unconsciously gripping the edge of the desk tight. And then York was snickering, nudging his side. Wash flinched and almost fell out of his seat. No one in the classroom spared him a second glance, not even The Counselor.

"He gives this speech every time a newbie comes in," the boy went on to whisper, grinning at Wash. "I'm York by the way. Don't get too intimidated. Krawlls and magic- it's not really as scary as he says."

"I'm not scared," Wash mumbled back, keeping his eyes on The Counselor who was now fiddling with something on the monitor. The other boy snorted but left it alone at that as The Counselor opened up a new screen on the monitor- a slide pack full of words.

Wash looked at it in dread.

 

At some point, after two more lectures, lunch time rolled around. Two Collectors came into the room and distributed sandwiches. Wash and the others were made to eat as The Counselor booted up another series of slides and lectured again.

It was at this moment Wash came to the terrible realization that there didn't seem to be any other sort of teacher who would come to "teach" classes. They would all be given by The Counselor.

After sitting through three _more_ lectures all given by man, they were dismissed to eat dinner with clear instructions to go to the training hall by the time the next hour was up. Wash was the last to leave the classroom, warily watching the others, not wanting to get in their way. He hadn't even realized they'd spent the entire afternoon in that same room.

His shoulders slumped. He stopped in the hallway, suddenly exhausted as he looked at the boys and girls chatting ahead of him.

Wash had spent the entire lecture time sitting ramrod straight. He had never been in a learning atmosphere like this one. Everyone else seemed considerably more lax, but they had been here longer than him. They were used to it. _He_ wasn't.

Wash miserably closed his eyes. He didn't think he would ever be. What was he doing? What even _was_ all this? Magic, Krawlls, _Jesters_? In the city slums there was his house and his room and his parents- all of them crammed together, living day-to-day with no thoughts besides what would tomorrow bring. _Here_ it was square walls and uniformed attire. It was classrooms and lectures and strangers and even stranger adults and-

What was Wash _doing_ here?

"Hey."

Wash's eyes popped open.

A girl with brown eyes and brown hair pulled into a bun stood in front him. Her features were soft. It was the first thing he noticed about her, mostly because he'd only really gotten to look at Maine. Wash pushed off the wall he'd been leaning against, not even aware he'd been resting against it in the first place, trying to straighten up in the presence of the unfamiliar face.

"You're the new kid, right?" she asked.

Wash nodded.

She studied him for a long second, then smiled and offered him a hand. "Some people call me C.T. but you can call me Connie if you want."

Wash slowly accepted the hand, not entirely sure she wouldn't pull him into an arm lock and demand his lunch money or something. She didn't though, just shook his hand with a firm grip and growing grin. Then she moved away and beckoned for him to follow.

"Come on. I bet you're hungry; We don't have much time to eat."

Wash looked past her, noticing for the first time that some of the others were waiting at the end of the hall. That York kid, Maine, and the other boy he'd sat next to. North was it? He hesitantly joined the small group, but they didn't say anything about him, just began complaining about how boring the lectures had been the entire walk to the mess hall.

Somehow Wash ended up standing in line with them to get their food. And somehow he ended up at a table with the four and the red-headed girl from earlier who'd been glaring holes into his head.

"Carolina," Connie had cheerfully introduced.

So now Wash sat, squashed between North and York, a tray of potatoes and vegetables in between his hands, much too afraid to look up for fear of making eye contact with the girl sitting directly across him. Nearly half of their allotted dinner time passed before York stopped arguing with North over the existence of flying squirrels to ask Wash why he hadn't eaten yet.

"It's because he's scared," Carolina spoke up, "of _me_."

Wash sputtered and tried to fumble out an excuse, but Carolina had a terrifying stare. Anything he had to say quickly shriveled in his throat. The redheaded girl narrowed her eyes when he finally went silent, pointing at him with her spoon. 

"Eat. _Now_."

Wash had never shoveled anything down his mouth as quickly as he did that night.

"Give him a break," York laughed, pounding Wash on the back once he began to choke. Carolina rolled her eyes and went back to her own food. A brief moment later, once Wash stopped choking and caught his breath, he found a yogurt cup sliding his way from the other end of the table. Wash looked over in surprise but Maine wasn't looking, trying in vain to pick up peas with his fork.

Wash picked it up, eyeing it with the kind of suspicious one would give to a drink they thought was laced with poison. He wasn't aware he was being watched until Connie laughed from Carolina's other side. He lowered the yogurt, startled, and met her amused gaze.

"Eat up rookie," she said. "You're going to need it."

 

An hour later, Wash was _really_ regretting eating that yogurt as he, the members at the dinner table, and only a select few others dove into an evening training which involved an obscene amount of running, drills, and fitness workouts.

If this was what it meant to be in the Class-A training roster, he wanted _out_.

Wash never craved for his home back in the city slums as much as he did in that grueling three hour period. He wanted to curl up into his ratty bed that smelled like moth balls and hay, and listen to the TV play beyond the boundaries of his door, knowing his father would be sitting there watching. And somewhere in the tiny home his mother would be scrubbing furiously at a stain in one of the four shirts she owned.

It wasn't a home he liked. But it was a home he _wanted_ to be in. 

Something must've showed on his face. Once in a while York or Connie would approach him during their five minute breaks and clap him on the shoulder or ruffle his hair.

It didn't make training any easier. This unfamiliar place. These unfamiliar people. Titanium floors and square walls. 

This was...his life now?

 

Wash fell into his bed that night, not even caring that the lights stayed on. He thought he heard Maine come in some time later. Something was dropped beside his bed, but Wash assumed it was something of Maine's and didn't bother to lift his face from the pillow it was currently suffocating in. A few minutes afterwards, the bathroom door was shut and the sound of running water filled the silence of the room.

A shower. Huh. Wash wondered if he should get up and take one himself. He hadn't had a shower in a while- especially since the water in his home had stopped running two weeks before the Collectors took him away.

But Wash couldn't move. Every limb ached, every muscle throbbed, and up until two hours ago he hadn't known his body could bend a certain way.

He fell asleep telling himself that it'd be impossible to get out of bed the next morning. That he was going to close his eyes and die right there and then. But when he slept it was to dreams of screeching Krawlls, explosive magic, and a dinner table where he wasn't alone.  

When morning rolled around hours later, Wash opened his eyes to Maine standing at his bedside again, this time with a bottle of soap in hand.

Wash stared for a long moment, trying desperately to wipe the remaining wisps of sleep from his mind. Maine stared back, and kept staring until Wash sat and accepted the soap. Then the older boy stepped away and proceeded to get dressed.

It took Wash a long moment to realize why he'd been given the soap. And after he did, he turned bright red in embarrassment and nearly leaped off the bed, running for the bathroom in slight horror. He must've smelled something _awful._

Wash was still embarrassed ten minutes later, after he had thoroughly cleaned himself and scrubbed his face and teeth. Surprisingly Maine was waiting at the top of their bunk, sitting and gazing at the space of wall above their door. He stopped, though, when he noticed Wash.

A grunt escaped his lips. Maine dropped from the bunk and made a beeline for the door.

Oh. Breakfast then.

Wash went quickly to his bed and put his boots on, marveling at how much bigger they seemed to have gotten overnight. They didn't squeeze his feet anymore. Wash saw Maine looking at his boots as he came back to the door. The older boy nodded to himself, then turned and started down the hall without another word.

Wash followed after, completely confused. 

And another day began, same as the one before.

~x~x~

 

Weeks passed, months came and went, and soon it was years that had come and gone by.

Eventually that rickety, cold house he was forcibly taken from faded from his memories, only an idle thought in the worst of his dreams.

The place he thought he'd hate; the place he thought he'd fear, had become more a home to him than the one where he and his parents once resided.

Sometimes he found himself thinking about them, about what they were doing now that he was gone. But those moments grew farther and fewer in between the longer he stayed with the Project.

His focus was thrown entirely on training and education; learning about magic, how to defend against it, and apprehend those they found with it. They studied history of the city and of what the world used to be before the Great War left nearly all the nation destroyed, grey, and barren. They learned mathematics and studied runes, were taught how to calculate distances between themselves and their targets and filter quickly through plans B, C, and D should A go wrong.

In their classes they were reminded of the date, the month, the time, the year. It was the only way he kept track of time.

Wash grew taller. His baby fat was replaced with the barest hints of muscle. He was _different_ than before and he... he didn't mind it. Training was rigorous and tough. But where else could he learn the things he was learning here in the M.O.I?

It was better here. It really was.

~x~x~

 

Five years later, Wash was twelve. And he had finally been cleared for outdoor observation.

He was still the worst Jester-to-be by far, barely passing combat scores, academic study grades that fell short behind the others- and just yesterday during weapons training he shot Carolina in the butt. The _only_ reason he wasn't dead was because The Director had been monitoring, tracking their progress as he was prone to doing every two weeks. Still, after the evaluation, Wash had been _miraculously_ cleared.

"Someone's The Director's favorite," York had joked afterwards.

Which was a complete lie because the only time Wash saw The Director was during the evaluations he always managed to botch.

Granted, Wash's new rights didn't permit him to possess his own shooter yet or carry out orders to hunt mages or Krawlls like the ones Maine and Carolina were given, they merely allowed him to leave the M.O.I under the supervision of a senior Jester. But Wash didn't really care about the details of his passed evaluation. He was going to go _outside_ \- for the first time in five years.

Wash strapped his boots on eagerly and met Maine on the other side of their bedroom door.

The older boy had turned seventeen four months back and had become even more standoffish than before. There was more muscle on his body and darker shadows in his eyes, and sometimes Wash got the feeling that Maine knew something terrible that he didn't. But Wash never worked up the nerve to ask. Besides, Maine had a tendency to walk with grunts more than actual words, and when he _did_ speak, it was often one-syllable words.

At least Wash could take solace in the fact that Maine grunted at him more than he did to the others.

"What do we get to do tonight?" Wash asked as they started down the hall, trying and failing not to sound too excited.

Maine cast him a short look, then turned his impassive gaze back ahead. "Patrol."

"Cool, cool..." Wash fidgeted for two minutes straight before asking, "So what's the city like?"

"Cold."

"Can we sit on a building?"

"No."

"Are we allowed to get snacks from one of their food places? Because I skipped dinner hoping we could so-"

"Washington," Maine stopped.

Wash tripped into his back. The older boy looked down at him, his expression vaguely strained.

"Please stop talking."

Wash clamped his mouth shut and nodded, caught off guard by the near full sentence Maine had said more than anything else. Maine went back to walking a brief second later, glancing over his shoulder every so often to make sure the now silent Wash was following.

Soon enough they passed the mess hall and crossed into the lobby. Collectors were stationed in all corners of the rooms as they always were, and though they still unnerved Wash, he had all but gotten used to them. What _did_ surprise him were the two Jesters waiting near the doors.

"Hey," York greeted amiably as they drew close. Carolina narrowed her eyes at Wash.

"Hey," Wash replied, trying his best not to look the older girl in the face. "Are um...you guys heading out too?" he hesitantly asked. Because if so there was a very good chance Wash would end up face first in a ditch somewhere. Outside the protective walls of the M.O.I, there was no Counselor or Director to stop Carolina from ripping off his head.

York laughed, catching on quickly. "Don't worry. We came to see you off."

"Me?" Wash wondered. "Why?"

York reached into his pocket and pulled out a green, plastic-wrapped lollipop. "Don't look at me weird," he told Wash, handing it over. "It's from Connie. She said you were so excited you forgot to eat. She would've given it you herself but The Director wanted to see her."

Wash tucked the piece of candy inside the folds of his coat, hoping his ears weren't as warm as they felt. "Thanks," he mumbled.

York grinned. "Anyway, it's your first time out. I wanted to remind you not to do anything stupid. Listen to Maine. Don't shoot anyone in the butt."

Wash cheeks flushed in a mixture of mortification and embarrassment, more than aware of Carolina's glare. "I don't have a weapon," he hurriedly said. York eyed him in amusement.

"I'm sure you'll find a way."

Wash looked almost pleadingly at Maine. "Can we go now?"

Maine didn't even nod, just stepped towards the doors. The Collector standing closest by went to open them up.

"Maine," Caroline called as the doors began to swing open and moonlight filtered inside. The older boy turned his head. Carolina looked at them both for a moment, lips pressed tight. Then she jerked her head in Wash's direction and said, "Don't lose track of him."

Maine nodded then both she and York were gone, heading back down the halls of the M.O.I.

And then they were outside. And Wash nearly cried.

 

The air was so very different beyond the walls of the M.O.I. It was frigid and brisk, filled with warring sweet and foul stench. Cars hurtled down the wide, paved streets; the loud _zzzzrooom!_ as they went by startling Wash each time. Tall buildings surrounded them on every side. Window stores and businesses with welcoming lights lined the sidewalk they walked along.

It was busy- busier than Wash was used to seeing in the desolate halls of the facility. Men, women, children and the like bustled to and fro across the streets, dressed in light clothing. Some of them carried bags.

 _Summer_ , Wash recalled vaguely. Connie had mentioned it was around that time of year when they last spoke.

Once or twice someone would glance there way, but otherwise there was no attention given to the two boys dressed in heavy clothes and painted masks.

Wash, who had grown self-conscious once they actually descended into the city, was left wondering if the people of the city had somehow been informed of the Project and new magic-policing force. He wouldn't know, really. The Counselor told them only what he deemed was necessary information. What the people thought of them or knew of them didn't fall into that category.

They walked for what felt like hours through the Upper District. After a while Wash realized that every city street looked the same. But it did little to damper the small excitement he still felt amid the slight anxiety and surprise of his new surroundings. Maine even bought him a pretzel from a large, food stand, lit in sickeningly bright yellow and red colors Wash hadn't seen in _ages_.

The pretzel was hot and gooey and soft enough to melt in Wash's mouth, and it took almost everything in him that still believed in manners, to offer Maine half. The older boy predictably declined and Wash responded by shoving the remains down his throat before Maine could change his mind.

It was the sound of crying that brought him to a stop.

Maine kept walking but Wash's feet remained lodged to the ground. His head swung as he glanced for the source of the noise he hadn't heard in years. No one else walking the sidewalks appeared to hear the sound either. Wash frowned, failing to spot anyone particularly sad. Was he imagining things?

No. There it was again.

Wash turned around. There, about thirty feet away, was a child standing outside in the shadowed light of a window shop, sobbing her eyes out. Wash's feet carried him over purely on instinct, as he momentarily forgot about The Counselor's explicit instructions not to interact with anyone outside of their orders that wasn't selling food.

She looked dirty and dressed poorly compared to everyone else in the Upper District. It didn't take much for Wash to conclude she'd been kicked out of the shop she had just been in. But she was so...young and so... _small_. Where were her parents? Wash glanced around the closer he got the child, as if they would pop out of thin air and sweep the crying child into their arms.

They didn't. And the girl was still crying.

So there Wash stood in front of the child, at a loss, briefly wondering why no one else had bothered. What was he supposed to do? Why did he even...?

All of a sudden, the girl looked up. She saw him and her eyes grew large with terror. Wash panicked. Was it the mask? It was the mask, wasn't it? He reached a hand to push aside his mask without thinking.

A hand seized his wrist, strong enough to leave a bruise. 

Wash jumped as Maine stepped into his line of sight, staring dead straight through the mask Wash had just tried to take off. Wash stared back, throat dry, heart pounding madly in his chest. He couldn't believe he had almost...

Then Maine was looking at the frightened girl, dropping Wash's wrist, and taking a menacing step towards the child as if he planned to shut her up himself. Wash hastily got in the way, one hand pushing against the older boy's chest. He didn't stay turned long enough to see Maine's reaction- wasn't sure he wanted to- gazing at the girl and racking his mind for what he _could_ do.

He knelt in front her trying to smile hard enough so that it was apparent through the mask. If anything, she cried _louder_. Okay Wash. Try again. He was hyper-aware of Maine's eyes on him, of the tension in the older boy's stance. But this girl was just a kid, even younger than him, on her own in a world that didn't care. 

"Hey..." Wash hesitantly began. "Don't cry. It's okay. My friend and I didn't mean to scare you."

Talking. He was _talking_ to someone not in the Project. The Counselor said not to. It was dangerous. They could be a mage. Some part of his mind screamed for him to stop before he broke the rules any more than he already had.

But the girl was hiccuping, and she was really just a kid, rubbing her stubby fists against her cheeks. Wash saw this and stopped thinking about The Counselor and his obsession for the rules.

Wash's smile became a bit more genuine. He reached into his coat and pulled out the plastic-wrapped lollipop York had passed on from Connie. The girl's eyes flew to the piece of candy right away. Wash offered it. Honestly he'd been looking forward to eating it as a desert, after the pretzel. But he could always try and get another from Connie later. This girl though...

Wash frowned, settling back on his heels, watching as the girl slowly took the lollipop, glancing between it and them as if they would laugh and snatch it away.

She was a kid, younger than him, and on her own in a world that didn't care. The world didn't care for Wash either, but at least he had a bed and people he could call his friends. This girl though... she might not have a later.

Maine must've gotten fed up at last. He all but hauled Wash up from the ground and forced him to walk away. He didn't speak; didn't do anything, but keep a tight grip on Wash's arm.

They went home to the M.O.I right away, and still Maine never said a word.

 

Three days passed. Maine hadn't so much as looked his way; hadn't bothered to wait by the door in the mornings so they could grab their food. Even in classes and training the older boy made a point to put as much space between them as possible.

York had shrugged when he noticed and told Wash not to worry. Connie had taken it a bit more seriously and went to interrogate the older boy. Wash spent those days wallowing in uncertainty and something close to fear. He hadn't felt like this in a long time; since the first day he'd been brought to the M.O.I.

Had he done something really wrong?

It was impossible to tell.

During lectures or training when Wash saw The Counselor or Director, neither treated him any differently than before. But that didn't mean Wash's heart rate didn't spike erratically when he was in their presence. He could barely focus on training or his tests. His next evaluations scores had plummeted.

This wasn't good. He wished he could just see what the consequences were for breaking the rules already. 

The other repeatedly assured him not to be so on edge; that it would be alright, really. But it did nothing to stop Wash from feeling like every Collector he passed had eyes trained on his movements; like every lesson with The Counselor and reminder of the rules was directed towards him.

Then one afternoon Wash caught York, Connie, and Carolina gathered in the classroom before their scheduled lesson. They had been huddled in the back corner, shoulders stiff and voices terse, talking in voices too low for Wash to properly hear as he lingered outside the door. 

"....trouble but..."

"Maine is....right to be...too."

Wash furrowed his eyebrows. He couldn't make sense of their words. But he heard his name soon enough and The Director was mentioned too, and suddenly Wash didn't want to be anywhere near anyone else.

He spun on his heels and retreated hastily towards his room, bumping into an older fellow named Wyoming who had recently been brought in, and already given the title of 'Jester' Wash had yet to earn.

"Oh! Washington-" the man started to call after him, but Wash was already out of sight.

He stayed in his room the entirety of the afternoon and evening, not bothering to leave for dinner either. No one came to see where he went. Maine didn't even return to the room.

Wash laid in bed, clutching his sheets until his knuckles turned white, thinking of all the stories he allowed himself to forget that he'd heard about The Director before he'd been brought in five years ago. He stayed awake, staring at the empty bunk above his head until his eyes burned.

The very next morning, Wash was called in to see The Director.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait. This chapter was SO much longer than I thought it would be.  
> Thank you all for the interest you've all shown so far though! I will try to update as frequently as I can *thumbs up*

**Author's Note:**

> Because I am Tuckington trash


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